Paul Cook - Brother of the Dragon

“It’s our own people,” Hoten announced. “It’s too soon. I’ll have to head them off.”

He ordered his men to hold where they were, then ran down the stony slope.

He soon spotted the outriders of the main band. Standing atop a convenient outcropping, he waved his hands over his head. The horsemen stopped. Zannian emerged from the ranks and rode to meet his lieutenant.

“What news, Hoten?”

“You came too soon, Zan. My men are only a hundred paces farther on. The bronze dragon himself could be hiding in the cliffs above us, and we wouldn’t know it until it was too late.”

“You give the mud-toes too much credit,” Zannian scoffed. “The ones who escaped us on the plain are probably home by now, and the rest are wetting their breechcloths just thinking about our coming. We should attack before they have a chance to regroup.”

“I think that’s unwise, Zan.”

The chief shrugged. “Then argue with my mother. It’s her idea.”

Hoten looked for Nacris, but she wasn’t to be seen. “We’re going,” Zannian announced. “Find a horse.”

One of the lead riders shouted a warning. Hoten pushed through the standing horses to the water’s edge, and Zannian followed him on horseback. They soon saw what had made their man cry out: a body, floating facedown in the river. From his clothing, it was clear he was a raider.

At Zannian’s command, two men waded into the stream, snagged the drifting corpse, and hauled it back to shore. Hoten turned the man over. His forehead bore a terrible wound.

“It’s Besh — one of my scouts,” Hoten said, frowning.

“Looks like he fell. Clumsy idiot.” Zannian turned his horse around and called to his men, “Forward!”

“Zan, wait.”

The chief rode away. Fuming, Hoten stared at the body. What was Zannian thinking? He was always bold, but never so rash. What was wrong with him?

A horse was brought, and Hoten mounted. He took a spear from the hide scabbard draped over the horse’s neck. Still filled with misgivings, he joined the stream of riders filing into the shadowed depths of the gorge.

The column strung out as the raiders thinned into a narrow line just two riders wide. Hoten made his way forward until he was riding alongside his chief. He remained watchful until they came to the spot where he had left his scouting party. His men were nowhere in sight.

“What trickery is this?” Hoten growled. He dismounted and searched the stony riverbank. Not a trace of his nineteen men remained.

A figure suddenly appeared out of the scrub a hundred paces upriver. Several raiders yelled to alert their leader.

Zannian shaded his eyes to see who it was. There was no mistaking the mane of jet hair, the slim shape, and insolent stance.

“Beramun!” Zannian drew his bronze sword and brandished it above his head. “My elven blade to the man who takes that girl alive!” he cried.

The raiders cheered, urging their horses forward. The girl awaited their rush, hands on her hips.

Hoten grabbed the bridle of Zannian’s mount, shouting, “It’s a trap! Can’t you see that?”

“Let go!” the chief shouted, shoving Hoten away with his foot. “I swore to have that black-haired girl, and have her I will!”

With a hundred raiders well ahead of him, Zannian charged down the canyon at the unmoving figure. Hoten’s frantic warnings were lost in the din.

When the horsemen were sixty paces away, Beramun turned and sprinted up the ravine. The men followed, whooping and brandishing their spears, each believing he’d be the one to win the fine elven blade.

As the foremost riders passed a twisted cedar tree, Beramun scampered up a sloping heap of rocks by the south wall of the gorge. From behind this mound a dozen armed villagers appeared, spears ready. The raiders slowed, saw how few of the enemy stood before them, then charged onward, laughing.

Hardly had the triumphant shouts left their throats than a hail of heavy stones, some as large as a man’s head, rained down on them. Horses and raiders toppled.

Zannian, held up by the flailing mass of fallen men and animals in front of him, turned his horse this way and that, dodging missiles. He caught sight of Beramun again, standing with her comrades. The sight of his men being routed by a bunch of dirt-scrabbling farmers filled Zannian with fury. He drove his heels hard into his mount’s flanks. Riding over his own fallen men, he closed within thirty paces of Beramun.

“Give yourself up, and I will spare your life!” he shouted.

She did not move. “I won’t ever be your slave again!”

Zannian notched a dart into his throwing stick, but before he could fling it, a block of red sandstone grazed his horse’s neck. The startled animal bucked, forcing Zannian to drop his weapon and hold on with both hands to avoid being unseated. While the gray stallion danced and twisted, more stones flew down. One struck Zannian squarely in the chest, and he fell into the mob of fallen raiders.

Hoten saw his chief go down. He took command, calling for darts. This forced the villagers to quit their place atop the rocky mound. They fled up the gorge on foot. The raiders couldn’t pursue because of the continuing barrage of stones and spears.

Hoten ordered half his men to dismount and scale the cliffs. They ascended steadily, protected from projectiles by the overhanging peak. Moments after they reached the top, the bombardment ceased.

After sending the unconscious Zannian to the rear, Hoten led fifty mounted warriors after Beramun and her comrades. They quickly caught up to the fugitives. Spurred by their chiefs promised reward, the raiders concentrated on Beramun. Her companions dueled with the raiders until their backs were quite literally against the canyon wall.

“Slay all but the black-haired girl!” Hoten roared.

The raiders closed in. Their reluctance to harm Beramun bore against them. With no such compunction staying their hands, the villagers drove back the first wave of raiders. Hoten called for darts, but his men feared hitting Beramun and losing the bounty, so their attack came to naught.

Many of the villagers had lost their spears in the previous attack and were reduced to throwing stones at the enemy. The youth on Beramun’s right went down, felled by a spear in his chest. Two raiders jumped off their horses and tried to grab her. She hit one on the head with the shaft of her spear. The pole snapped, but the man went down. The second raider caught her by the wrist and delivered a vicious backhand blow.

Beramun slammed into the canyon wall and slid to the ground, dazed. The raider who’d felled her reached down to claim his prize. His triumph was short lived. A deafening roar filled the tight confines of the gorge. Rocked by the terrible sound, Hoten and his men looked up to see Duranix hovering over the gorge, his wings flapping hard to keep his enlarged body aloft.

The bronze dragon roared again. As one, the raiders dropped their weapons and leaped on their horses to flee. Duranix lowered his head and blasted them with a bolt of lightning. The ground shattered beneath them, dust and rocks flying in all directions. Most perished, and the few survivors raced down the canyon on foot. The dragon landed in front of them. Jaws gaping, he incinerated them, one after another, until not a man or horse stood upright.

Beramun pushed herself onto her hands and knees. A weight on her arm turned out to be the raider’s hand still gripping her wrist. It had been burned off above the elbow. Paharo helped her pry the dead fingers loose.

The smell of singed flesh filled the air, and the view downstream was obscured by drifting smoke and dust. The surviving villagers approached the dragon.

Beramun called, “Well timed! Another ten heartbeats, and we’d have been done for!”